A Cure for Night (25 page)

"Not just yet."

Paul shook his head. To my surprise, he looked genuinely sad. It occurred to me that my confession had altered our friendship, perhaps permanently.

And so it began. Soon I was spending every weekend with Beth. Our getting high always outnumbered our lovemaking. I did stick to my rule that I would do heroin only on the weekend. I was well aware that Beth had no such rule; her job performance continued to suffer. I found myself in the uncomfortable position of increasingly having to cover for her, right up to that day when her death had burst everything out into the open.

Did I love her? Even to this day I wasn't sure. I knew, I always knew, that she didn't love me, and I liked to think I was pragmatic enough to restrain my own feelings when certain they would not be reciprocated. I suspected Beth was permanently incapable of love; what I knew for sure was that she was incapable of it in her current condition. What there was of our sex life quickly devolved from mediocre to lousy: Beth seemed fundamentally uninterested, her libido shut down by her addiction.

The situation had become increasingly untenable, as I had known it would. I wondered how long I could maintain myself as a heroin dilettante, a weekend snorter, before things got out of control. I would have to do something.

I was spared having to take action, but not in any way I ever would've wanted. The situation had taken on its own momentum, which led to its own resolution. Perhaps Beth's death had saved my life; who knows where I would've ended up if I'd continued down that path awhile longer?

But I'd hardly gotten off scot-free: I'd lost my job, been suspended from practicing law for half a year, had to start all over again at the bottom. Of course, that was nothing compared to what Beth had lost.

WHEN I
was finished telling it I couldn't look at Myra. It was the first time I'd told the story to anyone. I hadn't looked at her while I was talking, my gaze fixed at some vague spot on the table. It'd been a long time since I'd been naked before another person—truly naked, not merely unclothed—and the feeling of total exposure felt terrifying. But it was necessary too: I needed to open myself to Myra. If anybody was going to be able to accept my wrecked little self it was her. I wanted to offer her that chance.

"Do you miss heroin?" Myra asked after a long moment had passed.

"What?" I replied, although it was clear to both of us that I'd heard her.

"I would think you must still miss it," she said.

"I don't, actually," I said. "Honestly. Heroin's like the best
loveless sex you've ever had. But that's all it is."

"Well, that can still be pretty amazing," Myra said.

I looked at her, started to say something, didn't. "Anyway," I said,
"as to the drug thing, I don't feel anything about it but shame and guilt."

"Guilt?"

"Sure," I said. "I hate that I was a part of the damage drugs do.
I hate that I helped create the world that people like Lorenzo and Devin Wallace
live in. I recognize my responsibility for it."

"I think you're giving yourself too much credit," Myra said.
"That's the world our client would be living in regardless of whether someone
like you decided to experiment with dope."

"Yes and no," I said. "I mean, one person more or less doesn't
make any difference, sure, but if there wasn't any demand there wouldn't be any
supply."

"There'll always be demand," Myra said. "But let's not change the
subject to the big picture. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You sure you got it beat?"

"Sure becomes a little relative when talking about such things," I said, thinking about the heroin from Shawne Flynt that was still waiting for me in my apartment.

"Come on, Joel," Myra said. Her cell phone started ringing, audible from her purse, but she ignored it.
"You don't even go to meetings? You're that sure of your own uniqueness? Of your
own strength?"

"I didn't claim there was anything unique about me," I said, finishing off the last of my Maker's Mark.
"Just because everybody else announces their problems on
Jerry Springer
,
that doesn't mean I can't choose to deal with my problems myself."

"I think you're just another guy like me," Myra said.

"And what're guys like you?"

"People who just can't deal with the idea of having other people
be in their lives."

"Is that really how you think of yourself?"

"I think that's why I like being a lawyer so much," Myra said.
"It's a way of engaging with the world by way of other people's problems."

"You let Terrell Gibbons into your life," I countered.

"Sure," Myra said. "In a sense I did. But I mean, how safe is
that? The guy's borderline retarded and accused of murder. I took on his
problems as my own the best that I could, but at the end of the day they're
still his problems, not mine. I had a couple of bad nights because I lost the
appeal. But he's the one doing twenty-five to life in Sing Sing."

"Well," I said, "there wouldn't be very many criminal defense
lawyers if we had to serve our clients' sentences."

"And I'm not saying I would trade places with Terrell even if I
could. That's the point, though, isn't it? We get to go to war, but it's always
someone else's battle. Win or lose for us, we live to fight another day. We're
in the fight but not of the fight."

"I know what you mean," I said. "But I don't agree that I'm
somebody who can't let other people into my life."

"Have you been with anyone since that girl died?" Myra asked softly. It wasn't a question I'd expected.

"Not in a way that meant anything," I said. I looked up at Myra, but she kept her gaze down.

"Do you want another drink?" I asked.

"I don't think I can stay here any longer," Myra said. "The sound
of other people having a good time is bugging the fuck out of me."

The force of my disappointment surprised me. "Okay."

"It's not that I want to be alone right now," Myra said quickly.
"I don't, actually. We can still hang out."

"Sure," I said. "I'm not going to be falling asleep anytime soon."

"You want to come over?"

"Yes," I said. "I do."

Myra nodded, at last meeting my eyes. "Let's go, then," she said.

WE WENT
out onto Henry Street to hail a cab, walking down to the intersection. As we waited for the light to change, I stepped forward and kissed her. Myra leaned into me, her hand coming up to my shoulder, then my neck. After a few seconds she broke it off, resting her head against my chest as I held her. Her skin felt cold in the evening's chill. Only her mouth felt warm.
"We know about one hundred people who work within six blocks of where we're standing right now," Myra said, a softness in her voice I hadn't heard before.

"I think they all went home for the night some time ago," I replied.

"When did you first know that you were going to kiss me?"

"When did I first actually
know
? About thirty seconds ago.
I've known that I wanted to for a while before that."

"Let's find that cab," Myra said.

MYRA AND
I didn't speak on the short cab ride to her apartment on South Portland Avenue in Fort Greene.
"There's beer in the fridge and vodka in the freezer," Myra said once we were inside. I could tell she was nervous, which only compounded my own nerves. Her apartment was muted and tasteful, considerably more adult than I'd been expecting: Myra had clearly nested here, built a home.

"Which do you want?" I asked.

"Would drinking vodka be too obvious an admission that I was getting myself drunk so that you could take advantage of me?" Myra asked.

"Vodka it is," I said. "You got anything to mix with it?"

"Does ice count?"

I poured us a couple of drinks and brought them over to the couch. Myra had left the overheard light off, turning on a couple of lamps. She'd put on some music, something ambient and vague.

"Your apartment's nice," I said.

"What'd you think, there'd be pizza boxes on the floor?"

"Something like that, yeah," I admitted.

"You're still not convinced I'm a girl, are you?"

"I'm getting there."

"Is that so?" Myra said, peering at me as she sipped at her drink. I was still settling in, getting used to the fact that I was here, and wasn't sure I was quite ready to actually go to bed with her.

"The thing about this kind of music," I said, "I like it, but then
there's this moment where I'm about to suggest somebody put some music on."

"You want thrash, Joel?" Myra said. "Because I can give you
thrash."

"Is that a fact?" I said, reaching out for her.

This kiss was different from the one on the street, less tentative, with a bit of an edge to it. Myra softly bit my lower lip. I responded by sliding my hand under her shirt. I was moving it up toward Myra's breasts when her phone rang.

"Do you need to get that?" I said, wondering who the hell was calling her this time of night.

"I don't answer the phone this late," Myra said. "Anybody ever
call you with good news after midnight?"

After four rings the machine picked up, Myra's recorded voice saying her number but not her name. After the beep a man's voice came over the speaker.
"Myra, this is Adam Berman at the
Journal
. Give me a call when you get
this. We've got some breaking news over here relating to your case, and would
love to get your comment. It seems Malik Taylor was just murdered."

I UNDERSTOOD
when Myra kicked me out shortly after returning Berman's call: suddenly we both had a lot of work to do before the morning. Myra had assigned me the task of researching whether Taylor's death gave us grounds for reopening the trial to present evidence regarding his murder.

Back in my apartment I went straight for my bookshelf, shaking my contracts textbook so that the packets of heroin fell to the floor. I snatched them up, moving quickly now, not allowing for any pause to let myself think or try to rationalize away what I was about to do. I didn't even know when I'd made the decision to do it, hadn't even realized that I had.

I didn't turn on the bathroom light, just stood over the toilet and opened my hand, letting the packets fall. I looked down at them a moment as they floated there, then watched as they disappeared in the soft roar of the flushing toilet.

I was clear. For now, I was clear.

36

Y
OU WANT
me to do what?" Judge Ferano asked. It was a little after nine a.m., and Myra and I were gathered in the judge's chambers along with O'Bannon and Williams.

I'd stayed up most of the night reading cases on my laptop, trying to establish a legal basis for our getting news of Malik Taylor's death in front of the jury, while Myra tried to find out whatever facts she could. We'd met up at the courthouse at eight thirty in the morning, Myra brisk and entirely businesslike, no acknowledgment of what had happened between us the night before. I wondered if it had all been a temporary aberration, a frisson born of anxiety, stress, and a primitive need for comfort.

"You should declare a mistrial," Myra said firmly to the judge.
"In the alternative, we move that you instruct the jury to cease deliberations,
and then allow us to reopen our case to present evidence relating to Malik
Taylor's murder."

"Your Honor—" O'Bannon began, but Judge Ferano held up his hand to stop him.

"I don't see how this is possible grounds for a mistrial," Judge Ferano said.
"As for telling the jury to stop deliberating, I've been a judge for seven
years, and I've never had a party ask to reopen the case after the jury had
begun deliberations. You have any authority for this proposition?"

"The Court of Appeals has established that a trial court can reopen a criminal case when new evidence of a defendant's guilt or innocence has come to light during the jury's deliberation.
People v. Olsen
," I said, handing first the judge, then O'Bannon, copies of that opinion.
"It's obviously not a commonplace thing, but our situation here provides a
perfect example of when it needs to be done."

"Let me read this," Judge Ferano said. We were all silent for a minute while the judge quickly scanned the opinion, O'Bannon doing the same with Williams looking over his shoulder.

After a minute Judge Ferano turned to O'Bannon. "It appears from this decision that I do have the authority to reopen the trial if new evidence has come to light," he said.
"So it seems the real question is whether or not this constitutes new evidence.
What do you know about Malik Taylor's murder?"

"I don't have any independent knowledge that he's even dead, Your Honor," O'Bannon said.
"All I know is what defense counsel has said."

Judge Ferano turned back to Myra and me.

"Explain to me precisely why you believe that Taylor's death is
evidence of Lorenzo Tate's innocence in the shooting of Seth Lipton and Devin
Wallace."

"It has been the contention of the defense throughout this case that the police should have investigated Malik Taylor as a suspect in that shooting," Myra said,
"given that he was an equally plausible, if not more plausible, suspect as our
client. The fact that he's now been murdered strongly supports our theory. Devin
Wallace has not cooperated with the police in this case, and it is obviously
possible that Taylor's murder is a case of street justice."

"Do you have any actual evidence that Taylor's murder was in any way related to this case?" Judge Ferano asked.

"Taylor's murder happened less than twelve hours ago," Myra said.
"I've left messages with the investigating detectives but have yet to speak to
them. Which in all fairness, I might not always return an after midnight call by
nine the next morning either."

"So what you're telling me is that you don't have any knowledge of the circumstances of this murder," Judge Ferano said.
"For all you know Taylor was mugged on the street, or the police have already
arrested somebody for the crime and established that it was unrelated."

"Barring someone else already having confessed or a batch of eyewitnesses, I can't imagine the police wouldn't consider Mr. Wallace a potential suspect," Myra replied.

"On the basis of what?" O'Bannon said. "Ms. Goldstein's
speculation, coupled with her innuendo in your courtroom?"

"Now, Counsel," Judge Ferano said to O'Bannon. "However tenuous
the defense's claims might have been in regards to establishing that Malik
Taylor shot Wallace and Lipton, they did legitimately show bad blood between
Taylor and Wallace. I would think the police will likely have some interest in
talking to Wallace about Taylor's death if they don't have a clear suspect. But
really, everybody in this room is just whistling in the dark here, because none
of us knows what actually happened last night."

"Your Honor," I began quickly, ready to hand out additional case law to try to keep Judge Ferano from denying our motion.

"Relax, Mr. Deveraux," Judge Ferano said. "Here's how I see it. If
Wallace is legitimately a suspect in Taylor's death, then it looks to me like
jury deliberations should be suspended and you should be allowed to present
evidence in that regard. But if it looks like Taylor's murder was just a
coincidence, then there's no reason it should go before the jury. The interests
of justice suggest that I shouldn't let the jury continue their deliberations
until we sort this mess out."

"But, Your Honor—" O'Bannon began.

"What else would you have me do?" Judge Ferano interrupted, glaring over at O'Bannon.
"Think it through, Mr. O'Bannon. Let's say the jury reaches a guilty verdict today, and then tomorrow the police arrest Wallace for killing Taylor, who promptly confesses that he did it because he believed it was Taylor who tried to kill him. We'd have to try this whole case over again, assuming your office could even reprosecute. Meanwhile the
New York Journal
is running frontpage articles asking how an innocent man had been convicted of a
crime he didn't commit, and that doesn't help any of us."

O'Bannon and the judge looked at each other for a moment; then O'Bannon shrugged.
"I understand that it would be relevant evidence if the police believe Wallace actually killed Taylor," O'Bannon said.
"I would just stress that if there is no evidence of such a link, the defense
should not be able to just present evidence that Taylor was murdered. I mean,
the guy lived in a bad neighborhood; who knows what happened?"

Judge Ferano proceeded to work out the details of how we'd go forward. The jury would be told to stop their deliberations, while the judge attempted to get the details of Taylor's murder from the police.

Lorenzo was brought to court from Rikers every morning; the first time we would usually see him was when the COs brought him to the courtroom. We hadn't had a chance to even tell him what had happened, so we went down to the holding cell where Lorenzo was being kept in case the jury reached a verdict.

Myra ran through everything, moving so quickly from Malik's death last night to the suspension of the jury's deliberations a few minutes ago that I felt vertigo, even though I'd just lived through it. I watched Lorenzo carefully to make sure he was following; his shocked expression told me he was.

"So you think Devin might have gone after Malik?" Lorenzo asked.

Myra cocked her head slightly; she hadn't actually suggested that yet, although that was where she was going.
"We don't actually know one way or another," she said after a moment. "But we
think the police have to at least be considering that possibility."

"Devin gone after Malik because he heard about how Malik be hooking back up with Yo-Yo," Lorenzo mused.
"I can see how he'd come to do that."

"You never know," Myra said. "The point is, we don't have to prove
that Devin did it. If the DA can't disprove that, then it could be enough for
reasonable doubt."

"So what happens now?"

"I'm kind of curious about that myself," Myra said.

IT WAS
a little after eleven by the time Detectives Dwayne Franklin and James Scott arrived at the judge's chambers. Franklin was black, late thirties, dressed more like a businessman than a cop. Scott was white, fleshy, on the far side of fifty. They did not look like partners with too much in common, though they were united in how unhappy they looked about being there.

Now that we were all gathered in chambers nobody seemed quite sure what to do, everyone looking to Judge Ferano, who for the first time in the case appeared distinctly uncomfortable with the attention. He offered Franklin and Scott an elaborately courteous greeting, which neither detective acknowledged with more than the slightest of nods.

The judge then proceeded to summarize the relevant parts of our trial, emphasizing our attempts to put Malik Taylor forward as an alternative suspect, the detectives keeping their expressions neutral while the judge spoke.

"So," Judge Ferano concluded, "the question I have for you,
Detectives, is this: are you investigating, or are you aware of, any possible
links between the shooting of Devin Wallace and the murder of Mr. Taylor?"

"We spoke to Yolanda Miller last night, after we learned that she was the mother of Malik Taylor's child. She told us about this case, and about the previous disagreement between Mr. Taylor and Mr. Wallace," Franklin said. Franklin must have spent a lot of time on the witness stand, because what he was doing now was so clearly cop in a courtroom.
"She also indicated her own suspicion that Mr. Wallace might have been looking
to go after Mr. Taylor based on this situation, and what had come out in court."

"When you say 'what had come out in court,' is there something specific you are referring to?" Judge Ferano asked.

"Yes," Franklin answered. "Ms. Miller told us that the defense
attempted to question her about a recent sexual encounter she'd supposedly had
with Mr. Taylor."

"I remember that," Judge Ferano said. "I sustained the objection.
I didn't allow her to answer and told the jury to disregard it."

"Apparently she thought maybe Devin Wallace didn't disregard it."

"And have you questioned Mr. Wallace?" the judge asked.

"We haven't been able to locate him yet," Franklin replied.

Judge Ferano tilted his head skeptically, giving a long look at the detectives, who looked back at him, Franklin deadpan polite, Scott through hooded lids.
"When you say you haven't been able to locate Wallace," he said, "does that mean
you have police actively looking for him?"

"Yes."

"And you've tried his apartment, I take it?"

"Of course," Franklin replied.

"Do you have people watching his apartment?" Judge Ferano asked.

"We're keeping an eye on it, yes."

"So he's hiding out from the cops," Myra couldn't resist saying.

"I don't want to hear from you, Counsel," Judge Ferano said sternly, glaring at Myra briefly before turning back to Franklin.
"Do you have any reason to believe he's hiding from you?"

"All we know is, he doesn't appear to have come home last night." This was Scott, finally interjecting.
"Lots of men don't sometimes—it doesn't necessarily mean they're hiding from the
police."

"Are there any witnesses to the crime, or any other evidence suggesting either that Wallace is a viable suspect or that he isn't?" the judge asked.

"All we got from witnesses was two black men in a car, a darkerskinned man at the wheel, a lighter guy who did the shoot," Scott said.

"With all due respect, Your Honor," Franklin began, showing more animation than he had so far,
"you're putting us in an impossible position. We understand that the reason
we're here is to see if our investigation is tanking another murder case. And
the simple fact is, we just don't know enough yet to answer that. We talked to
Detective Spanner, who handled the Lipton murder, this morning. She told us
she's sure that Tate was the right guy. Now maybe there was some underlying beef
between this Wallace and Taylor, but even so, that doesn't mean it has anything
to do with the shootings—"

"With all due respect to you, Detective," Judge Ferano interrupted,
"don't try to tell me how to do my job. I don't like this either—the jury has started deliberations—but I can't ignore it when the person proffered by the defense as an alternative suspect is murdered. I'm sure you're not ignoring the problems between Wallace and Taylor in your investigation, and I can't ignore them either.

"However," Judge Ferano continued. "I do also, and I want to make
this clear, understand that you are in the midst of a murder investigation that
began just a little over twelve hours ago. We've got a lot of cross-purposes at
work here, and my job is to try to balance them as best I can. So, Detectives,
let me ask you this: it is my understanding that the first forty-eight to
seventy-two hours of a homicide investigation are the most important; would you
agree with that?"

"Absolutely, Judge," Scott said immediately, clearly thinking he saw a way out of this room. I caught Franklin giving his partner a look.

"Am I correct, then, in taking that to mean you will be investigating this case all weekend?" the judge continued.

Now even Scott sensed a trap. The two detectives looked over at each other, neither immediately responding.
"Unless we make an arrest today, we will, yes," Franklin said at last.

"So here's what I propose," Judge Ferano said. "We have enough of
an issue here that I'm going to send the jury home for now. I'm going to require
at least one of you to appear before the court at nine a.m. sharp on Monday to
inform me as to where your investigation stands. Based on what I hear, I will
either let the jury resume deliberations, or I will reopen the case to allow the
defense to call one of you to testify about Taylor's murder. Detectives, I wish
you luck in your investigation, and I very much hope you can shed some light on
it come Monday."